


Merry Pupmas!

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Christmas Eve brings many things to many people - family, friends, gifts - but to Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, this year, it brings something very different.  Not that different is a bad thing, but it certainly offers its share of challenges and surprises...





	1. Chapter 1

Christmas Eve was supposed to be a magical night.  A night when the world seemed to take a break from its bitterness and bile to simply allow good cheer to flow like wine.  Not explode like a fucking boiler and take out three storage sheds and one unfortunate utility pole.

      “Was it something in the water when your mum was expecting, sir?  Your brother is loony.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock being handcuffed to John to ensure the good doctor was made fully responsible for dragging the loony detective home where the key would be found, having been placed there by the vehicle-possessing police constables that were now preparing to flee the scene of the looniness.  The dragging seemed to be occurring quite handily, though, over Sherlock’s loud and rather wordy protestations, which John was ignoring with a practiced, and exasperated, ear.

      “I genuinely have no idea, Detective Inspector.  To his credit, Sherlock’s hypothesis was proved correct.”

      “He hypothesized that explosives would explode.  I really can’t award him much credit for that.  Any five-year old who’s watched a cartoon knows that.”

      “But the five-year-old, hopefully, did not handcraft the explosive material themselves.  And, I have little doubt that Sherlock’s assertion his formula will match that of the explosives used in the bank robbery you are investigating will be correct.”

      “Something our lab would have established in a day or so.”

      “True… but consider the savings to your budget now the work need not be undertaken.”

Greg smirked at Mycroft’s brotherly pride trying to hide itself behind a bush and failing utterly.  Maybe it was a stray bit of Christmas cheer prompting the pride, but it was actually a lovely thing to see, given the brothers’ somewhat prickly relationship.  Not that he _needed_ any further reason to think of Mycroft as lovely, but… no, no buts because one mature man didn’t use words like lovely to describe another mature man, even if that mature man was elegant and sophisticated and fine of feature and lovely _was_ the best word that he could think of to describe all of that.  Not that he was thinking it, of course.  That would be loony and there wasn’t room in his night for more looniness now that the Sherlock situation had been contained by trained professionals.

      “I will give that all the consideration it is due.  Now, I suppose…”

Mycroft blinked at how fast Greg’s face shifted from clear amusement at what the DI had properly recognized as his rather limp arguments in support of his infantile baby brother to an expression that signaled the man was on high alert.

      “Detective Inspector?”

      “Do you hear that?”

Mycroft startled slightly both at the sharp tone of Greg’s voice and the unanticipated words he’d just heard, however, since hearing _was_ the topic of the moment he focused his attention to the area around them and listened for anything out of the ordinary.  Which…

      “A slight… whimpering sound?”

      “Yeah.  Come on.”

Surprised his feet immediately acted on Greg’s order, Mycroft followed the DI as he strode away from the Sherlock-created crime scene and towards the various structures that lined this small bend in the river.  Then, they continued _towards_ the bend in the river itself where Greg stopped short and uttered a rather titillating, to Mycroft’s sensibilities, expletive under his breath.

      “There.  See it?”

      “Yes, unfortunately, I do.”

Beyond the shoreline, on the ice that the year’s exceptionally cold weather had produced in abundance, was a small shape that, when it was still a moment, Mycroft recognized as a puppy.

      “Who the fuck would leave a dog out here on night like this?”

      “I have an unfortunate wealth of ideas on that subject, however, now is likely not the time to discuss them in any depth.”

      “No, it’s not.  We’ve got to get that little thing and quickly.  He goes out any further and I doubt the ice is thick enough to support him.”

      “I agree, but I doubt the ice is thick enough to support a human, in any manner, so how do you propose to reach it?”

      “Uh… carefully?”

      “That goes without saying, however… Detective Inspector!  Come back here at once!”

Mycroft’s tone was a far more worried than demanding, a fact that slipped Greg’s notice as he started out on the ice towards the shivering puppy, hoping that this wasn’t as stupid an idea as he was absolutely certain it was.  Especially after he heard the rather sinister cracking sounds from under his feet.

      “Detective Inspector!  Enlarge the area of contact!”

      “Wh…what?”

      “Pressure!  It is force per unit area with, here, your weight as the force.  Enlarge the area and you reduce the pressure on the ice!”

      “Thank you, Professor Holmes.  I bow to your knowledge of sums.”

      “Lie prone, Detective Inspector and… it will increase your chances of success.”

Lie prone?  On the ice?  If it was anyone else but a true and proper genius telling him that, Greg would have had a selection of words for that person, but it _was_ a true and proper genius giving him the advice and it also jibed with some vaguely-remembered lessons from his own days at school, so prone it was.

Carefully changing position to accommodate his science lesson, Greg slowly crawled towards the puppy who began whimpering more loudly, both from the cold and the new fear of a person approaching.

      “Shit!  He’s moving away!”

      “Try… something.”

      “Bloody brilliant.”

      “I am not a dog owner, Detective Inspector.  I have no idea what one does to soothe the fears of a canine.”

      “I’m not either, but… I remember my dad used to, when he had to coax a frightened dog or cat… we will never speak of this, do you understand?”

Mycroft’s confusion spiked, then fell as he heard a rough voice begin softly singing what the British Government recognized as a rather traditional Christmas carol.  However, the gentle tones did seem to have a calming effect on the puppy or, at least, halted it’s retreat further onto fragile ice.  Unfortunately, once Greg got within grabbing range, the motion of the attempted grab startled the dog who scooted backwards and the low friction allowed it to slide out of Greg’s reach.  The next round of singing and crawling that became necessary had both Greg’s and Mycroft’s hair standing on end, because the cracking sounds began again, louder than before.

      “Detective Inspector!  Perhaps… here.”

Mycroft slid his umbrella across the ice to collide with Greg.

      “It shall extend your reach and, perhaps, the dog will not be as fearful if you remain a slight distance from it.”

Or having an umbrella sneak towards it might scare it more, in Greg’s mind, but he was about at the limit of what he could trust for this ice and was willing to try anything at this point.  Budging the umbrella up into his hands, he resumed singing and tried to distract the dog with silly little faces while he inched the umbrella towards it to loop the handle around it’s bum and give it a tug forward.  What was a plausible plan on paper turned into a panto scene as the dog began scrambling away from the umbrella at the first contact and the extra motion broke the ice to send the puppy into the freezing water.  Only a second behind was Greg who pushed off the ice with enough force to move a little forward, but also overburden the support, which buckled and had him plunging into the water, also.

      “Gregory!”

Now it was Mycroft launching himself onto the ice, diving forward and sliding on this stomach to snatch at Greg’s flailing hands, finally clasping his wrist and holding fast as Greg used the anchor not to crawl back on the ice but stray out further to grab the wildly splashing puppy by the scruff and hold it fast while he and Mycroft worked to get them both out of the water and pulled back to shore.

      “Oh f…fuck I’m freezing.”

Mycroft pulled off his overcoat and began to wrap it around Greg, who was holding the dog to his chest and worrying frantically that the small puppy would already be falling into hypothermia.

      “H… hold on.  Here…”

Shoving the sodden puppy at Mycroft, who dropped the coat to take the dripping, shivering dog, Greg took a deep breath and quickly removed his own coat, jumper and shirt before taking the dog back and pressing it to his skin and nodding Mycroft to continue with the coat-wrapping.

      “That was profoundly rash, Detective Inspector.”

      “Y…yeah.  C… car?”

Oh yes, the car.  Which had a driver who Mycroft had never thought to call to assist with the dog-retrieval process.

      “This way.”

Helping the increasingly-shuddery Greg to his feet, Mycroft rushed them to the waiting vehicle, reminding himself to issue the order for someone to retrieve the Detective Inspector’s own police vehicle, and bundled his charges into the rear seat once the driver got over his shock and leapt out to open the door.

      “Mr. Holmes, what…”

      “Home.  And make full use of your driving skills while doing so.”

Mycroft dithered a moment, then wrapped his arms around the silent, shivering human-canine duo, drawing them towards him for what warmth he could provide, in addition to the toasty comfort of the car.

      “Are you alright, Detective Inspector?”

      “N… no.”

      “Yes, I suppose that was a foolish question.  The dog?”

      “A… alive.”

And Mycroft suddenly knew that had to stay the case because if the poor creature died from it’s experience, the Detective Inspector would not forgive himself, though he was in no manner at fault.  Fortunately, his driver seemed to be taking his instructions very much to heart and if they did not arrive at his door with legion of in-pursuit police vehicles, he would be more than slightly surprised…


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft was out of the vehicle the second it came to a stop and hustling Greg into his house before it dawned on him that he was hustling Greg into _his_ house as opposed to Greg’s flat or the nearest hospital or veterinarian’s office.  However, now was not the time to change plans in the proverbial midstream, no matter that _plans_ were not precisely a proper term for his somewhat frantic actions and decisions.

      “I… a hot bath, Detective Inspector?”

      “Sh…shower.  It’s f…faster.”

      “Yes, you have a point.”

Guiding Greg up to one of the guest bedrooms, Mycroft got the shower running then dithered a moment, entirely at a loss about what was the correct protocol for a near-hypothermic god among men standing in one’s bath where his godly nakedness would soon be exposed and one’s loins were becoming quickly alerted to that fact, in utter disregard of the severity of the health and safety issues surrounding said oncoming nudity.

      “Shall I take the dog and… do something with it?”

      “C…coming in w…with me.”

      “Ah.  Most efficient.  Then, I leave it in your capable hands and…

      “They’re not v…very capable at the moment.  Little help?”

      “Pardon?”

      “My f… fucking fingers still can barely move.  D… don’t want to shower in m… my trousers.”

Oh no.  Oh no no no no no

      “Of course, Detective Inspector.  It was foolish of me not to think of that.  One moment.”

Mutiny!  His mouth had mutinied and agreed, nay!, _suggested_ that he perform the disrobing!  This was a catastrophe!  But, a necessary catastrophe as Gregory needed to gain warmth and that was not occurring while he stood here having a mental breakdown that his placid smile was doing its best to conceal.  Onward to glory… or the complete and polar opposite…

Mycroft quickly divested Greg of the coat and sadly noted how painfully reddened were Greg’s fingers that were clutching the distressingly-still dog to his chest.  His own immaturity was idiotic compared to the reality of the present concern and he berated himself mightily as he worked to remove Greg’s shoes, socks and pull the belt from his trousers.  There was some wavering, herculean amounts, actually, of his fortitude when the moment came to remove Greg’s dark blue boxer briefs from his body and the amount of mental and ocular gymnastics required to focus Mycroft purely on the task of efficient undressing could not be measured by modern science.  On the occasions his fortitude failed and the gymnastics landed him on the unforgiving ground and not the mat, he imprinted as deeply into his mind as he could how perfect was the body of the man standing shivering in his bath and how even his fondest fantasies had not crafted a picture of erotic perfection equal to the reality he was touching.  In a perfectly chaste and necessary fashion, of course.

      “Th… thanks.  We may… be awhile.”

      “Of course, Detective Inspector, do take all the time you need.  I shall find for you something dry to wear.  And see your own garments are collected when your vehicle is returned.”

      “Shit. F…forgot about that.”

      “Shower, Detective Inspector.  I shall tend to the incidentals.  And… tea?”

The soft whine that certainly did not come from the puppy told Mycroft his suggestion was a worthy one and he quickly closed the shower door, left the bath to put the kettle on and find something that would fit Greg’s frame.  Fortunately, he played host to sufficient multiple-day meetings that having clothes in a variety of sizes to offer after a refreshing shower was a strategic courtesy.  However, the courtesy was certainly not strategic, in this case.  Every creature comfort he possessed would be laid at Gregory’s feet as he recovered from his frigid ordeal.

Of course, _he_ might also need a bit of recovery from that particular ordeal, though for very different reasons.  And not the tawdry and titillating ones, either.  How utterly courageous and great-hearted an act he witnessed tonight.  Not that he needed any confirmation that Gregory’s character was anything but exemplary, but… it was an extremely rare individual who would imperil themselves for such a poor, small creature.  And how breathtaking was the Detective Inspector as he valiantly affected the rescue.  A man of valor, integrity, physical beauty… Surely that would provide many nights of fondest imaginings while he waited for the blissful arms of sleep to embrace him, poor surrogates that they were for Gregory’s own blissful, and muscular, arms performing the embrace.

Mycroft Holmes, aged and dreary as he might be, was officially a besotted teenager.  Verily, the Ghost of Christmas Past had visited him and transported him back to the youth he never precisely experienced and showed him how different it would have been had there been someone such as the Detective Inspector in his sphere.  Of course, perhaps it was a _good_ thing they had never met as youths.  Given his brain was apparently transformed into some bizarre sentient mass of love-addled jelly when in non-professional proximity to the remarkable man, there was grave doubt he would ever have reached the heights, as an adult, he currently occupied.  However, since he was most satisfied with these particular heights and had no plans to elevate them substantially, some degree of jelly-brained existence was entirely permissible…

__________

      “Oh… that was pure heaven.”

Mycroft looked up from his mobile and smothered his smile at the sight of Greg standing in the doorway of his kitchen, in charcoal trousers and a wine-colored cashmere jumper and sporting hair refusing to obey its master’s attempts to finger-tame it into submission.  The enthralling presentation was only enhanced by the thick socks that adorned his feet, with the addition of house slippers, and the small towel-swaddled puppy cradled in his arms.

      “I am happy you are both alive and well.”

      “I was worried for a bit about this little fellow, but he perked up nicely when the water sent all that luscious heat into his teeny bones.  He seems ok, though.  Beyond the cold, I mean.  No injuries or anything, at least, none that I can see.  Do you… have anything for him to eat?  Some water, too.  He was lapping at the shower floor, so I suspect he could do with a long drink.”

      “Ah, yes.  I have no doubt his experience has left him somewhat in need of, shall we say, charging his batteries.”

While Greg continued to hold the dog, Mycroft found a bowl and rummaged through his refrigerator for something to put in it.

      “I… what is appropriate for a puppy to eat?”

      “Ummm… meat?”

      “I have some lamb remaining from last night’s dinner, however, it is somewhat highly spiced.”

      “Ooh, probably not good for his little tummy.  Anything else?”

      “Nothing cooked.  Should they consume meat that is raw?”

      “I have no idea.  I suppose so, given this isn’t the age where meat is infected with all sorts of nasties, but it’s probably not recommended.  What do you have?”

      “A beef steak, a small measure of pork, a few sausages…”

      “Sausages!  You see dogs eating sausages on the telly all the time.”

      “That is not a fictional dog, Detective Inspector.”

      “True, but I wager he’d murder a platter of freshly-fried sausages.”

      “Are you suggesting that I prepare a sausage feast for a dog?  Who is scarcely the size of a sausage himself?”

      “Uh… no.  _No_ , I’m suggesting that _I_ prepare a sausage feast for a dog.  And he’s at least three sausages in size, I wager.  Not much hidden when you’re showering with a body, man or dog, and I’d say three plump sausages and maybe a few pieces of bacon, too.  And a good bit of toast.”

      “I am now realizing that your exuberance might link to your own level of hunger and, again, I apologize for my lack of forethought.”

      “That’s ok, I’ve got enough for the both of us.  At least, on the sausages issue.  But, I also do an amazing fry-up and I’ll be happy to man the pots and pans so you don’t have to pay for the food _and_ do the cooking, which isn’t terribly fair and I’m very much one to appreciate a bit of fairness in one’s life.”

      “Oh.  Well then… that is very kind of you and I shall accept your offer most graciously.  And, while you make what I have no doubt shall be a sumptuous feast, I shall phone and make arrangements for the dog to be taken to an appropriate shelter.”

Though the Detective Inspector was an achingly handsome man, his beauty was not enhanced by a dropped jaw of shock and wide, disbelieving eyes.

      “What?”

      “If they cannot find who actually owns the dog, then I am certain they can secure for the animal a suitable home.”

      “But… he was abandoned!”

      “I… we are not entirely certain of that.”

      “Yes, we are; a shelter isn’t going to find the person who owns him, either, and even if they did, it’d be some rotten bastard who would just turn him out again!”

      “Again, that is naught but supposition and…”

      “It’s… it’s Christmas Eve!”

      “Yes, for a few hours more and…”

      “You can’t send him to a shelter on Christmas Eve.  It’s heartless!”

      “It… it is?”

      “Of course it is!”

      “I… I thought it the compassionate thing to do.”

Greg fumed a moment, then realized that Mycroft wasn’t trying to deflect but, instead, was speaking honestly.  And, in truth, he couldn’t argue, but… Christmas!  You just didn’t do that sort of thing at Christmas.  You didn’t.  For the very good reason of… it simply wasn’t done.  Heartlessness was heavily involved, too.

      “Maybe, but…”

Greg held up the small puppy, still swaddled comfortably in his fluffy towel and held his own face next to the dog’s, making his best version of sad-puppy eyes, though the puppy was doing a very proper job of that itself, in solidarity with Greg’s staunchly-stated position.

      “That… Detective Inspector, that is _most_ unfair…”

The puppy began to whimper and Greg chimed in, adoring the way the person they called The Ice Man was melting like a snowman in July.  

      “I… I suppose the call can wait until tomorrow.”

      “What!  Tomorrow _is_ Christmas!  Tonight’s just the rehearsal!”

      “Oh dear god…”

      “You can’t, sir.  You can’t do that to this poor, abandoned, puppy.  That’s not you, sir.  You’re not a cruel, wicked man with no heart or soul.”

There were legions prepared to testify that a lack of heart or soul _absolutely_ characterized Mycroft Holmes, but Mycroft, himself, knew better.  And, he would as soon rend that heart from his body with a penknife than give the Detective Inspector reason to believe otherwise.

      “Very well.  I shall leave the matter in your hands.  You may take the dog to a shelter of your choosing when you so desire.  I shall even contribute to the canine’s keep for the few days he lives in your care.”

      “Me?  I can’t have a dog. They’re not allowed in my building.”

      “Then… you do not believe he will live here?”

      “Why not?  It seems you have a bit of ground out there for him to have a wee and…”

      “No.  Under no circumstances.  I have neither the knowledge, the time, nor the temperament for a dog.”

Greg held up the dog again and whimpered loudly, something with which the puppy happily harmonized until Mycroft rolled his eyes and shook his head.

      “Whereas I grant that the thought of turning away such a vulnerable creature at this time of goodwill towards men… and vulnerable creatures… is abhorrent, I… I cannot conceive of how to care for him.  I know nothing about pets and, even for a pair of days, I… I do not know what to do and would be most upset if the dog suffered further because of my lack of ability in this area.”

If it had been anyone else, Greg would have thought they were simply dodging the issue, but the naked look of helplessness in Mycroft’s eyes told the DI that Mycroft was, again, being completely honest and… that was a terrible thing.  Even _he_ had some idea of what to do with a puppy or kitten, but it was clear the life of Mycroft Holmes hadn’t allowed even that bit of awareness creep into the man’s vast intellect.

      “Ok.  Ok, I understand.  And… I suppose it’s good of you to worry about this little chap.”

      “Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

      “I’ll stay here and watch him so you won’t have to worry about mucking it up.”

Pardon?

      “P… pardon?”

      “I do have a little idea of how to care for the puppy, so I’ll take that on, but I can’t take him to my flat, so… I’ll stay here.  Unless… oh shit.  Do you have plans for Christmas?  People in for a party or something like that?”

Was Gregory joshing?  No, apparently not.

      “No, I anticipated spending the holiday in my typical fashion of enjoying a good book or two and embracing the peace and quiet that is a punishingly rare thing in my life.”

      “Mistle is quiet.  Very quiet.”

      Who or what is missile?”

      “He is!”

Greg held up the dog a third time and Mycroft stared hard at the tiny face that was pointy of snout and dark of color and mismatched in every other feature, with eyes that weren’t quite the same color, ears that didn’t deign to point in the same direction at any point in time and sported what, in a human, would be called a lopsided smile, though the dog seemed to be as studiously studying him as he was studying it.

      “Why?”

      “It’s short for Mistletoe.  Actually, his full name is Mistle Hot Toddy Jinglebell Toe.

      “Dear heavens…”

      “Isn’t it great!  I was struck by the Christmas spirit while we were singing in the shower.”

      “Detective Inspector…”

      “Greg.  It seems only right, sir, given… we just saved a life together...”

Mycroft opened his mouth to rebut the assertion, however… they _had_ saved the puppy’s life, though Gregory did the lion’s share of the rescuing and… the chance to address the Detective Inspector in a familiar manner.  Long had he dreamed of such a thing… 

      “…plus, you’ve seen all the bits I was born with and didn’t gag or be struck blind, so that deserves some degree of recognition.”

And there _was_ that issue, also.  It did seem a touch awkward to address in such a formal and sterile fashion the person you had physically denuded… so moving forward with familiarity, though it should, in fairness, be familiarity on _two_ fronts.

      “I would be honored.  And do call me Mycroft.”

      “Thank you!  Hear that, Mistle?  Daddy Greg and Daddy Mycroft are going to take care of you for a couple of days until we can find you a forever home.”

Gregory would be living in his house.  Living in his house.  Albeit only for a few score hours, however… living in his house.  Where there would be conversation, the sharing of meals… oh dear.  He had no idea how to live with someone.  Especially this someone!  And a dog.  His nerves would never survive the ordeal.

      “I suddenly have a need for a large and potent drink.”

      “So does, Mistle.  Though maybe not a potent one.  Got that bowl for his water?  Something festive, since it’s Christmas?  I’ll start on the sausages, too, and whatever else is in your refrigerator.  Leave it to me!  A cobbled-together Christmas Eve feast that would have Henry the Eighth licking his lips!”

Was Gregory always this… buoyant?  I had not seemed so but, apparently, his paternal instincts were imbuing him with a decided joie de vivre.  It was a look Gregory wore terribly, terribly well… much to the unfortunate benefit of his rising libido… maybe two large and potent drinks were in order.  As a start, at least…


	3. Chapter 3

      “Look at that little belly!  Mistle is the food eating champion of Dogdom!”

Mycroft dabbed his lips and hid his grin at Greg’s boisterous proclamation and the puppy’s happy barking from being the center of attention.

      “A most impressive meal, Gregory.  And I do appreciate young Mistle’s manners.  A cleaned bowl and nary a trace of mess to be found on the floor.”

      “He’s a good boy, that’s true.  Aren’t you, Mistle?  Good as good can be!  Though… no!  Hold on, Mistle, hold on, boy…”

Greg snatched up the puppy who had just begun to change his posture in a way that even Mycroft recognized, and it was a race to the patio doors so Mycroft’s floors and exquisite rugs were spared a piddling.  While Greg tended to that, Mycroft cleared the table, put more piddle fuel in the dog’s water bowl and decided his much-awaited drink could wait no more.

Pouring himself a large Scotch, Mycroft thought a moment and poured one, also, for Greg since he had a memory of the Detective Inspector stating a liking for such a libation and, given they were temporary housemates, such was the polite course of action.

Thinking a _second_ moment, Mycroft decided to have a seat in the sitting room where he had a view of the patio doors and…

      “Good lord.”

… the sight of Greg racing past it as if the devil himself was on his heels.  Then racing back as if he’d found an avenging angel to bring as an ally into the fray.  Then back a third time, waving his hands in the air as if all hope was lost and the Armageddon had arrived sooner than anticipated.

Rising from the sofa, Mycroft moved to the doors and looked through the glass, smiling at the sight of a grown man being chased by a puppy scarcely the size of a guinea pig.  This demanded investigation.

      “Gregory, might I ask if there is a problem?”

      “I’m going to be mauled!”

      “Ah, that explains your behavior most conclusively.”

      “He’s a vicious creature.  All snarls and teeth and fast as lightning!”

Which was somewhat undercut by the puppy periodically tripping over its feet in its haste to bring down its prey.

      “Yes, verily a ferocious beast.”

      “AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!  He’s gaining on me!”

Rather the Detective Inspector was slowing his pace to allow the short-legged puppy to gain ground which, by the jubilant look on the puppy’s face, made said puppy exceedingly happy.  Happiness that was proved by barking gleefully and launching on Greg when Greg dramatically fell to the ground like an antelope taken down by a jackal.

      “He’s got me!  I’m doomed!”

If one’s doom could be brought about by being licked to death, then Greg was surely a goner as the puppy lavished kisses on his face and did tappy-toe dances on his chest.  Mycroft tried to remember the last time his grounds had played host to laughter and joy and, to his discredit, couldn’t think of another example besides this one.

      “Alas, London loses a valiant warrior for the cause of law and order.”

      “Bury what’s left of me somewhere pleasant, alright?  After Christmas, though.  I don’t want to spoil anyone’s holiday plans with my funeral.”

      “I shall make a note of it.”

      “Thanks.”

      “I would also note that it is somewhat icy out here and given your recent encounter with the frosty fingers of winter, perhaps returning indoors is advised.”

      “Already?”

      “Inside there is warmth.  And Scotch.  Here is bereft of either.”

      “Oh.  You make a very good point.  Come on, Mistle.  I suspect you’re ready for a treat and a nap.”

      “The dog just ate, Gregory.”

      “Treats aren’t eating.  They’re… treating.”

      “You are most proud of yourself for that, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah.  It shows ‘cause I glows.”

Mycroft’s pained groan earned him a long round of Greg’s giggles, which secretly please the elder Holmes to an enormous degree.  Christmas bells were not nearly as beautiful to the ear as Gregory’s cheerful laughter.  What that laughter sound like after the Detective Inspector had spoken something unutterably filthy in his ear in a moment of passion did not bear contemplation.  Though he was contemplating it most strongly at the moment…

__________

      “Gregory, is that a crumb I see upon your face?”

The answer to the question of why his housemate had been longer than expected in the kitchen was revealed in a most visible fashion.

      “We was treating.”

      “That was not English.”

      “It’s Christmas English!  You can say what you like at Christmas.  That’s the law and I should know.”

      “Gregory… exactly how much sugar did you put into your bloodstream when out of my field of view.”

      “A massinormous amount.”

      “At that, I draw the line.  You may not simply create words out of nothing.”

      “Then how do words get made in the first place?”

      “I…”

      “I win!”

Greg’s victory was celebrated loudly with and “I win!’ chant and dance with Mistle providing a robust barking and bouncing accompaniment.

      “Sit.”

      “Me or Mistle?”

      “Both.”

Greg scooped up the dog and dropped onto the sofa, drawing an offended gasp from Mycroft’s lips.

      “Gregory!  The dog.”

      “Is here.”

      “On the sofa.”

      “No, on my lap.”

      “I will not condone a dog on my furniture, Gregory.  The shedding, the soiling… no, I shall not allow it.”

Greg quickly held up the puppy for Round 2 of in-stereo sad puppy eyes and piteous whimpering, but Mycroft steeled his nerve and kept his stern look fixed on his face.

      “On the floor, Gregory.  The rugs are most thick and warm, so you cannot claim discomfort for your charge.  If you like, you may put on the floor the blanket lying on that chair so that the puppy has a place to rest, but upon my furniture that rest will not occur.”

The whimpering escalated, with Mistle providing a full share of howls of mortal anguish that had Greg fake weeping fat, heavy tears of sorrow.

      “No!  No, I shall not be moved.  Down.”

Greg took a few long moments to bid farewell to Mistle, provide and receive many kisses, then set him down for a few more long moments of mournful gazing between man and dog before Mistle toddled off to explore this new world he’d found.

      “Well, I know who’s going to be the mean parent, don’t I?”

      “Most amusing.  I am tempted not to offer you the Scotch I poured as chastisement for your rapscallion-like conduct.”

      “No!  Noooooooo… I’ll be less rapscalliony, I promise.”

      “Rapscalliony is not a… oh who cares.”

Mycroft huffed an exasperated breath and rose to retrieve Greg’s drink and pour another for himself.

      “Thanks!  Ooh, this looks good.  And I’ve got plenty of food in my stomach, so I don’t have to worry about this going to my head too quickly.  Normally, that would be a benefit, but then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much because a whirly head doesn’t leave a lot of focus and attention for flavor and aroma and things like that, which I really want to savor with this.”

Mycroft pursed his lips as he took his seat and decided that his original observations were correct.  The Detective Inspector was _not_ , normally, this buoyant and talkative.  And, yes, he had factored in the greater level of familiarity and bonhomie they were experiencing due to circumstance.

      “Gregory… given we have known each other, in a more casual manner, for only the briefest of times, I would know, purely for my own edification… are you typically this… jolly?”

      “Jolly?”

      “Garrulous, animated, mischievous…”

      “Oh!  Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.  I’d say, yes, to some degree.  I don’t tend to show a lot of that at work because, it’s _work_ and supervising a murder scene isn’t really the place for silliness, but… yeah, I’m a bit over the top tonight, I suspect.”

      “The joy of the season?”

      “Hadn’t thought of that, but yeah, that could be part of it.  I do get a bit giddy at Christmas.  It’s just such a wonderful time… the music, the decorations, the special things you eat and drink only this time of year.  But…”

Mycroft watched Greg’s eyes take on a sheepish cast and the Detective Inspector take a long drink of his Scotch before continuing on.

      ‘… I think I’m also still on a bit of an adrenaline rush from tonight.”

A small ‘click’ of understanding sounded in Mycroft’s mind and he nodded that understanding after taking a sip of his own Scotch.

      “Ah, yes.  That would make sense.  The situation was certainly fraught with peril.”

      “That it was.  Especially… if you’re afraid of water.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened and Greg took another long drink of Scotch to hide his embarrassment at his confession.

      “You… you have a fear of water?”

      “Yeah.  Nearly drowned once when I was a kid.  I’m not so bothered that I can’t to go to the beach or fish by a lake, but I don’t swim and get pretty nervous when I have to be on a boat.”

Gregory… nearly drowned?  That was not in any of his various records, so it must have been when was quite young but, fortunately, did not come so close as he had to be taken to hospital in the aftermath.  However, this meant that Gregory’s act of kindness was a far greater deed than he had realized.  How frightening it must have been to for him to go onto fragile ice, knowing that a fall into dark, icy waters was more than slightly likely.  But, the Detective Inspector acted without hesitation because a life was in danger.  There… he had no words to express his admiration for such an individual.  But, how typical of this man, who had taken Sherlock under his wing when others simply spat upon him to act in such a selfless fashion.  Truly… it was a profoundly moving thing and he was not a man easily moved by _anything_.

      “I did not know, Gregory, and I apologize if I made your chattiness sound, in any way, negative.”

      “Don’t worry about it; I didn’t take it that way.  In truth, I noticed myself, but… the Scotch is going to help, that’s for certain.  This is very nice Scotch, too.  I’ll have another glass later if you don’t mind.”

      “Have what you like of whatever you like.  My house is yours while you are in residence.  It is the very least I can do since you are taking primary care of young Mistle who… Gregory, where is the dog?”

It was poetic justice that Mycroft’s question was answered with the sound of a crash from somewhere behind them.

      “Was that an expensive crash or not, do you think, Mycroft?”

      “Given I have little in here that would be classed as cheap…”

      “Ok… then I’ll use my extra-disappointed face while me and the lad have a chat about being careful with daddy’s things.”

      “I thought _I_ was supposed to be the mean parent.”

      “Shit!  I forgot.  Ok, I’ll get him another of those yummy shortbreads you have and tell him it’s ok he did a bit of a bad boy.”

      “The shortbreads were given as a gift from a rather notable member of the royal family.”

      “Oh.  That must be why they’re especially tasty.”

      “I would wager so, yes.  Kindly keep them away from the puppy.”

      “Just one.  One… more.”

      “How many has he already consumed.”

      “Not many.”

      “How many is not many.”

      “Four.”

      “Four more than he should have, given his tender years.  The quantity of sugar and butter alone is worrying.”

      “It’s… energy!  Little man like him, eager to explore and have adventures, he needs all the energy he can get.”

      “None, Gregory.”

      “Fine!  Fine, we’ll have celery and notepaper.  Is that ok with you?”

      “That is acceptable.”

      “Come on, Mistle.  Daddy Greg will get you your sad, bland treat that’s full of fiber and will let you make a poop larger than you are.  On Daddy Mycroft’s rugs, most likely.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Can’t hear you.  Too weak from hunger and lack of fiber.”

Mycroft watched the tiny puppy scamper after his silver-haired parent and glared when the dog paused turned back and, Mycroft was certain, laughed at him.  Well… that was a gauntlet that would not remain thrown down for long.  Gregory would have to sleep at some point and then Daddy Mycroft would be in charge.  The shortbread Mistle was certainly receiving now in direct violation of his prohibition would seem a very distant memory when _he_ was the one providing the treats.

Of course… a bit of shortbread sounded positively heavenly right now.  If he hurried, there might actually be a piece or two left for him to share…


	4. Chapter 4

The death of the shortbread occurred swiftly and with little pain, though Mycroft did have to snatch the container from behind Greg’s back as the DI made a completely lackluster attempt to hide his crass violation of house rules.  With that rebellion quashed or, more accurately, allowed to proceed to its natural termination point, the two men settled back in the sitting room with a fresh drink and found a fondly-remembered Christmas film on the telly to watch until Greg was falling asleep on the sofa and Mycroft decided it was time to formally consider the evening closed.

      “Gregory, I shall award you points for keeping your eyes open a full sixty-three percent of the time, however, that is not what one would, in any venture, claim as a laudable score.”

      “Huh?  Oh, yeah, you’re right.  I _have_ been nodding off a bit.”

      “And so should you, given the hour.  Here, let me show you to a room and…”

      “Nope, I’m sleeping right here.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Little puppies have little bladders and I’d rather be here to hear him if he whines or whizzes so I can tend to it quickly.”

      “That seems rather a lot of bother.  Might we simply…”

      “Yes?”

      “Now that I consider it more fully, I honestly have no idea that is not distressing in nature, such as imprisoning the dog in the bath where the floors are easily mopped.”

      “Not for our Mistle.”

      “I agree.”

      “Then here I’ll stay!  Besides, this is the most comfortable sofa I’ve ever sat on and I suspect it’s actually more comfortable than my own bed to sleep on, too.”

      “It _is_ a fine example of the breed.  Very well, then, I shall bring for you a pillow and blanket to make your rest an even more comfortable one.”

      “Thanks!  You have a good night, Mycroft.”

      “You as well, Gregory.  And you, young Mistle.”

Who, to Mycroft’s pride, had played a short while with a balled sock that had lost its mate, then made a nest from the blanket Mycroft had set down on the floor and settled into a quiet, cozy sleep.  Rising as silently as possible so as not to wake the dog, Mycroft got Greg’s blanket and pillow, bid a final goodnight to his guests and took to his own bed, which welcomed him for only a short time until his mobile was begging his attention and he was, again, out of bed to tend to a matter of work that did not seem to care today was officially Christmas Day.

Quickly dressing and moving back downstairs, Mycroft stopped to peek at his visitors and could not help but smile at the sight of Greg, tousled and unshaven, spread out on the sofa with Mistle sleeping on his chest.  Shaking his head at the utterly adorable defiance, Mycroft gently repositioned the blanket that had shifted during the night and gave Mistle a tiny scratch between his ears before moving towards the kitchen to fix a cup of bracing tea to accompany the start of the next few hours at his computer.  The tiny tapping noise coming from his tile kitchen floor alerted him that he had a visitor.

      “Hello, Mistle.  Did I wake you?”

Though the puppy could not actually articulate an answer, Mycroft felt certain he read ‘no’ in the minute shift of the dog’s expression.

      “Ah, good.  I know that growing creatures, be they human or not, require their sleep and I would hate to have deprived you of much needed rest.  Are you, perhaps, thirsty?”

This minute shift of expression stated that ‘yes’ a cool drink would be most welcome and Mycroft obligingly filled the designated bowl with fresh water.

      “There.  And, oh my… you certainly _were_ thirsty.  I shall lay the blame fully on the shortbread and remind Gregory to see you are properly hydrated after a raid on the forbidden elements of the larder.”

As the dog drank, Mycroft tended to his own thirst needs or, more accurately, his caffeine needs and was not entirely surprised that when he turned around, alerted by the cessation of drinking sounds, that Mistle was staring up at him with large, hopeful eyes.

      “Absolutely not.  You had both a filling dinner and post-dinner refreshments.  You shall not be given further food tonight.”

The whimpering that began was nearly sub-aural, but Mycroft felt it in his core anyway.

      “Try not those nefarious tactics on me, Mistle.  As Gregory has rightly deduced, I am the mean parent for the brief duration the title is necessary.”

Now the whimpering escalated and was accompanied by a strategic sitting and looking up posture that intensified the cuteness.

      “I do not appreciate your attempts at manipulation, Mistle.  Whereas I _do_ appreciate the use of tactics to acquire what one wants or needs, it is utterly in appropriate in this situation.”

As if deciding proximity might heighten the impact, Mistle moved towards Mycroft, stopping directly in front of his feet and stared up with even more soulful eyes.

      “Good heavens, but you are persistent.  And, I will admit, somewhat skilled at the art of persuasion.  However, I am not Gregory, and you shall not prevail.”

Mistle reached out and laid one paw on Mycroft’s shoe, looking for all the world as if he was pleading for his very life.

      “Dash it all!  Fine!  I am defeated.”

Stopping a moment to pour the now-ready water into his teacup, Mycroft then moved to the refrigerator where he was faced with exactly the question he had before.  What to feed a puppy if one did not have properly purchased and labeled puppy food products?

      “Are you… do you appreciate vegetables?”

The small squinch of Mistle’s nose seemed, to Mycroft, like an unsure response, so he methodically presented various samples of vegetable matter to the dog who gave each a thorough sniff, some a sniff and nibble, but, ultimately, decided against a vegetarian diet.

      “Very well.  We have eliminated the current vegetative contents of my refrigerator.  I shall extrapolate the data to assume that fruits, also, would not be acceptable, given the ones I have on hand are not precisely the sweetest on offer, which might satisfy your sugar craving.  Cheese?  Do you enjoy cheese?”

The tiny cock of his head, in Mycroft’s opinion, implied a willingness to try and he gave the dog credit for an adventurous spirit.  And, the eagerness with which the cheese was taken and consumed verified he had scored a victory on the puppy-pleasing field of battle.

      “Ah, you appreciate a savory morsel of cheese, do you.  That _is_ a particularly flavorful sample, I must admit.  However, no more.  Only a small amount can you have for it is very rich and it will surely do to your waistline what it would do to mine if I consumed it in abundance.”

The whimpering began again and Mycroft shook his head firmly, steeling his spine as the paw-on-shoe maneuver began and was refined to include a small pat on his ankle.

      “One more.  But _only_ one.  That is more than suitable number of calories to fuel you until your breakfast.”

Another small chunk of cheese was presented to the puppy who merrily chewed it into submission while Mycroft quickly grabbed his teacup and beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen so he could no longer be lured into the dog’s clutches.  Stepping into his study and setting down his cup on his desk, Mycroft stretched, then nearly fell over at the sound of a tiny high-pitched bark.

      “Mistle!  You nearly brought about my death.”

The satisfied look on the dog’s face was far too reminiscent of Sherlock’s for Mycroft’s comfort.

      “Now, go and return to the sitting room with Gregory.  I have work to do.”

Instead, Mistle began exploring Mycroft’s study choosing, now, to disable his recognition of language.

      “Young man, I shall not tell you twice.  Return to the study.”

Pouncing on a particular patterned section of Mycroft’s rug, Mistle rolled happily against the plush fibers and completely ignored Mycroft’s stern expression.

      “Mistle Hot Toddy Jinglebell Toe!  Cease your romping and return to your father immediately!”

Instead, Mistle rolled onto his back and wriggled, clearly intending to ignore Mycroft with every ounce of his puppy power.

      “Well, I never.  Very well.  If you choose simply to roll about and pay me no heed, then I shall return the favor.”

Nodding with determination, Mycroft turned and took himself back to his desk, sat down, scowled at his cooling tea and woke his computer from its restful sleep to make a start on the reason he was out of bed to begin with.  It wasn’t a minute before a small, warm form was bumping against Mycroft’s ankles to gain attention.

      “I am ignoring you, young man.”

Mistle’s tiny, pitiful baroo went right to Mycroft’s heart and his hands wavered over the computer keyboard as he drew together his resolve.

      “Continuing to ignore.”

The sound was now more of a soft weepy whine and not even the splash of comforting data across his computer monitor could hold Mycroft’s attention.

      “Good heavens…”

Reaching down, The British Government picked up a handful of puppy and set the dog on his lap.

      “If I allow you to remain and, further, provide attention in the form of acting as your cushion, will that be sufficient to stem the tide of your wailing and moaning?”

Turning a few times in a tight circle, then plopping down heavily with a loud doggy sigh sufficed as Mycroft’s answer.

      “Very well.  Fortunately, this shall not impede my work, in any manner, so you may rest until I have need to rise.”

Which given the tea situation would be soon, but he could certainly withstand the call of fresh, hot tea for a small measure of time to allow the puppy some rest and, hopefully, gain for himself some goodwill for when he _did_ have to set down the dog and continue on with other things.  So, a half-hour or so of work and time for Mistle to sleep, then a hot cup of tea to fortify for the rest of the night.  A rather fair compromise, if he did say so himself…

__________

Greg knew he wasn’t quite the age where his prostate would be dragging him out of bed at night for a wee, but a number of glasses of Scotch were having a similar result and, as he scratched and stretched, Greg realized that his little bundle was no longer on the sofa.  Or, after he looked about, anywhere in the sitting room.  This wasn’t good.

A quick double check that the sitting room was empty of dog and, blessedly, empty of puddles or piles, Greg slid his feet into his slippers and went in search of the tiny dog, spying quickly a possibility when he saw light shining from under the door of a room he hadn’t visited and which hadn’t had light shining under it when he fell asleep.  Time for an exploratory knock.

      “Mycroft, you in there?”

      “Gregory!  Oh, thank heavens!  Help me!”

Peeking into the room, which he suspected functioned as Mycroft’s home office, he found Mycroft himself sitting his chair, behind his desk and not a single terrorist or bandersnatch in sight.

      “What’s the problem?”

      “I cannot move!”

Given his speech wasn’t slurred and showed no worrying facial signs, Greg crossed a sudden stroke off his list of possibilities and wondered if one could become paralyzed without actually having some form of accident.  And, further, if the paralysis could keep you sitting upright in an expensive desk chair while your arms flailed about.

      “Why not?”

      “Mistle refuses to leave my lap.  It’s been hours!”

It would likely just irritate his host if he burst out laughing, so Greg swallowed the rising giggle and tried to look as concerned for Mycroft’s situation as possible.

      “Hours?”

      “Yes!  Well, one, and a substantial fraction of a second!  I am nearly delirious from lack of tea and Mistle is utterly uncaring of my plight.”

Mycroft Holmes was a man of incalculable wealth and power, but was being held in place by a dog smaller than his own foot.  Really, Greg could not, even if he tried his utmost, concoct a more entertaining story than that.

      “Ok, do you need the dog moved or do you just need tea?”

      “I… oh.  That is a good question.  He _is_ most content, at the moment.”

      “Then, as long as you don’t need the loo, how about I bring you tea and make a start on breakfast?”

If Mycroft looked any more relieved, Greg suspected the room would have lit to blinding brightness from the glow of his smile.

      “Food?”

      “I’ll take that as a yes.  It’s foolishly early, but I’ll make breakfast for us and the tiny terror, which will be a good trade for him allowing you your freedom.”

      “I would _greatly_ appreciate that.”

      “I’m on it!  Oh, and Happy Christmas, Mycroft.  It’s official.”

      “That it is. Happy Christmas, to you as well, Gregory.”

      “I’ll make certain breakfast is especially nice to start the holiday off on a good foot.”

      “But…”

      “But, tea first.”

      “You are a god among men, Detective Inspector.”

Greg grinned as he left the study and Mycroft marveled how completely he meant that last sentence.  Gregory was truly a unique and remarkable man and it was becoming very much his honor and privilege to know him better.  What had only been a general admiration for his professionalism and ability to manage Sherlock, married with a very liberal dusting of pure animal lust, was, now, something with decidedly more breadth… and depth.  What a strange and noteworthy Christmas this had become.  And… there remained a good bit more of it left to experience…


	5. Chapter 5

      “Dear heavens, Gregory, I had no idea you could fashion such a delightful breakfast with the cobwebs and dust that are the standard contents of my cupboards.”

Which, despite the earliness of the hour, was filling a rather surprising hole in Mycroft’s stomach.  Being victimized by an imperious puppy was more energy demanding than he realized, apparently.

      “Thank you!  And you’ve got a fairly well-stocked kitchen, I’d say, though the number of take-away menus is a bit startling.  I think you may have more than me and that is not a victory any man would want on his record.”

      “The ravages of work such as ours, I feel, prevent having much time to prepare one’s own meals on any form of a regular schedule.”

      “That’s very true.  Take-away was going to be my Christmas dinner today, actually.  Hot, spicy Thai food that my local favorite gladly delivers no matter what holiday it might be or status of the weather.”

      “Strangely, that was very similar to my own plan for the day.  A delivered meal so I had neither to cook nor clean when there were far more entertaining things on hand to occupy my time.  “

      “What about this new work business?”

      “Oh, that is on the cusp of completion.  I need but to check a few figures, send a few messages and that, as they say, should be that.  Of course, the End of Days could choose today to rain its terror upon London, but I shall keep a hopeful thought.”

Greg was still astonished that the man he’d thought somber and somewhat dour actually had a sense of humor and, apparently, used it freely when he was at home.

      “I’ll help with any End of Days lunacy.  It’s rare that I have Christmas free and I’d hate for it to be kicked in the arse by some apocalyptic nonsense that should have had the courtesy to wait until New Year’s Day when my own arse will be at my desk glaring a stack of paper into submission.”

Mistle’s small growl and launched attack on the last bit of the egg Greg had included with his doggy breakfast very much approximated what Greg wanted to do _to_ that stack of paper, though he wouldn’t be nearly as cute dong it as Mistle claiming his victory over a mouthful of food.

      “The puppy seems, also, to appreciate your cuisine, Detective Inspector.”

      “I’m feeling very appreciated, I do admit.  And he’ll reward me very soon with a lovely gift that I hope you have the proper equipment to handle.”

      “Ah, yes.  I shall phone for a hazmat suit to be delivered post haste.”

      “Hear that, Mistle.  Daddy Mycroft is putting your poop on the hazard materials watchlist.  I’m so proud of you!”

The puppy barked out his own pride and Greg decided that deserved another morsel of toast, both for him and the dog.

      “Need anything else, Mycroft?  Toast?  You’ve got amazing jam.”

      “Another spot of toast would be delightful, thank you.  And I’m grateful you appreciate my jam.  I have to hide it rather well since Sherlock tends to steal it to use as an appeasement gift when he has been particularly horrid to the good Doctor Watson.  As well as my wine, caviar and umbrellas, though, those he simply steals to be an infant rather than as a gift for his paramour.”

      “The bastard.”

      “Unfortunately, I have evidence that is not the case.”

Greg giggled and Mistle barked his own happiness at Greg’s merriment, something Mycroft found surprisingly endearing.

      “I am, as they say, here all week.”

      “I would actually pay money to watch you at a club, Mycroft.  You’re so slick with your humor that you’d bring the house down.”

Something Sherlock often said about his brother, though the house falling was mostly due to the dry rot and plague-infested rats he believed characterized Mycroft’s sense of whimsy, much to Mycroft’s continued lack of amusement.

      “Then I shall endeavor to remain as slippery as possible.”

      “You do that.  So, maybe something a kindly delivery driver provides for lunch and/or dinner and…  oh.  Look.”

Greg pointed out of the kitchen window and Mycroft smiled at the sight of snow falling gently from the sky.

      “A white Christmas.  How traditional.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “You do not care for tradition?”

      “Not that.  Mistle is a puppy.”

      “I was aware of that.”

      “Meaning… he hasn’t seen snow.”

There was no reason that fact should spark an excitement in him, but Mycroft’s excitement sparked, nonetheless, and it was not, in any sense, an unpleasant sensation.

      “Are you suggesting we remedy that?”

      “Oh, I’m suggesting the hell out of it.  Fancy a festive break after breakfast, before you’re back to your work preventing Armageddon?”

      “I would adore one.  What do you have in mind?”

      “Just letting the little man run about outside so he can learn something new.”

      “Ah, a laudable idea.  However, you do not precisely need _me_ for that.”

      “Sure we do!  He can’t experience his first snow without both of us there to see it!”

Taken at face value, Mycroft’s brain knew Greg’s statement was nonsensical, however, Mycroft’s heart held a very different opinion on the subject and used it’s rarely-flexed muscles to beat his brain into quivering submission.

      “You are absolutely correct.  I have no idea what I was thinking.”

      “Alright then.  We’ll finish here, then this one will get his chance to learn something new.  You’d like that wouldn’t you, Mistle?  Smart little boy wants to learn everything!”

Mistle had no idea what Greg was talking about, but his silver-haired daddy was talking to him and happy, so everything in the world was wonderful and that certainly deserved a spirited round of barking and running around the kitchen to celebrate.  And the celebration made both his dads laugh!  _And_ he got toast!  This was incredible!

      “Gregory, you have overstimulated Mistle.”

      “Burning off that puppy energy.  You’ll appreciate it later when you want some quiet and he’s so tired he just naps for a few hours and let’s that quiet happen.”

      “That is a very good point.”

      “Thanks!  And, as a reward for recognizing my good-pointedness, toast for you with jam.”

It occurred to each man just how comfortable and domestic was the morning’s scene, but both decided not to comment upon that fact.  They were both far too old to believe in such things as ‘jinxing,’ but neither was willing to take a chance that any form of jinxing might occur.  The comfort and domesticity was a bit too enjoyable to wish away at this particular time…

__________

With the final crumbs of toast consumed, Mycroft and Greg shared a small grin, then raced to the doors of the patio, with Mistle in hot pursuit and waited a moment to both enjoy the sight of the developing coating of snow and the anticipation of a tiny, gleeful puppy racing through it.  With a large intake of breath, Mycroft finally opened the doors and, as expected, Mistle shot out and had what was the puppy equivalent of seeing their filled stocking on Christmas morning.

      “Mycroft… our little boy is happy.”

      “Really?  How can you tell?”

Greg burst out laughing, which briefly interrupted Mistle’s running through the snow and trying to catch snowflakes on his nose, so he could bark merrily at his dad’s laughter.

      “Psychic!  I’m a dog psychic.”

      “Verily, there is a fortune to be made in that profession, I have no doubt.”

Chuckling at their nonsense, both men stepped out to better keep an eye on their charge who was testing out his teeny legs for speed and sliding on the slippery snow when his traction failed.

      “It’s a nice bit of grounds you have here, Mycroft.  I wager it’s gorgeous in summer.”

      “I admit that I have been somewhat draconian with my gardener to ensure that very thing.  I do not often spend time here but, when I do, I prefer it…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Silly as it is to say, I prefer that it be bursting with life and color.”

      “That’s not silly!  That’s wonderful, in my opinion.  Too much we do and see and experience is dreary and gray and, frankly, disheartening.  To come home and just stare awhile at something beautiful and natural to remind you of how wonderful the world can be… no, there’s nothing silly about that, at all.”

In truth, Mycroft didn’t think so either, however… it was difficult to make an honest emotional confession when you had too often in the past, received scorn or ridicule for them.  But… Gregory understood that particular need.  The need to simply be reminded that there was more in the world than the darkness through which, too often, he had to walk.  And… given Gregory might enjoy such a thing himself…

      “Then I would hope that, come summer, you might visit to see the grandeur of my garden when it is fully in bloom.”

The light in Greg’s eyes allayed Mycroft’s worries that his offer might be disregarded out of hand.

      “I’d like that.  I really would.”

As the two stood and smiled, both became a little uncertain about the way their eyes locked and how that locking fired certain feelings that each held very privately inside.  Given standing there like a berk was not the impression Greg wanted to make, especially after that little shared moment, Greg broke eye contact, bent over and scooped up a handful of fresh snow.

      “Almost as much as I’d like to do this.”

Throwing his handful of snow in Mycroft’s face, Greg darted a few steps backwards and grinned as Mycroft’s face lit in a determined smirk and the British Government also bent to fill his hands with ammunition.

      “I should warn you, Detective Inspector… my aim is unerring.”

      “Aim schaim.  Put your snow where your mouth is and maybe I’ll believe you.”

The frigid projectile hit Greg directly between the eyes and the game was officially on.  With various strikes, taking cover, holding up the puppy as a hostage, flinging snow on the puppy to watch him begin to wriggle with joy and try to bite his powdery nemesis, it was a long half hour of chasing and being chased until the men were feeling the cold, as well as their age, and Mistle had exhausted his nearly inexhaustible energy, enjoyed a quick poop, then dropped down in the snow to look up with large, sad eyes at his dads, begging to be carried back into the house.

      “Awww… the little bugger’s had enough.  I’ll tend to his gracious gift, Mycroft, if you want to take him inside and give him a bit of a toweling off.”

      “Yes, it would not do for him to remain cold and damp for overly long.  Come along, Mistle.”

Mycroft scooped up the small puppy and held him close to his chest while Greg handled the less pleasant task, though, it also gave him time to think about Mycroft’s offer to return to the house.  Not for Sherlock-related business, but just to enjoy a spot of beauty and a bit of companionship.  Time, also, was spent thinking about the moment of eye contact that sent a shiver up his spine.  Maybe, also, he thought it sent one up Mycroft’s spine, too.  There was certainly something in Mycroft’s eyes that said he’d felt something but, like this old copper, didn’t know what to do with that feeling once he’d had it.

But, if the feeling _was_ there, then… ok, it was too cold, and he was a bit too snowy, to give this serious thought.  Hot cup of tea, some quiet time while Mycroft finished his work, then… well, it was Christmas!  Who knows what could happen at Christmas.  A day of magic and wonder that, hopefully, shook loose a few screws in his brain so he could think straight.  For what he might be possibly looking into the idea of thinking about _maybe_ doing… he’d need a very unscrewed brain.  Definitely time for tea… and a cuddle with his small fuzzy son…

__________

      “Gregory… is it acceptable for me to ask?”

      “He’s a reindeer!”

Having tidied the last loose ends of his morning’s business, Mycroft looked at Mistle, who was beaming and proudly wearing the antlers Greg had fashioned out of foil, tape and twine, and he marveled at what went on in his house when he wasn’t there to see it.

      “That… that he is.  A glittery one, at that.”

      “He’d make that Rudolph bastard fear for his job, that’s for certain.”

      “Hmmmm… Rudolph’s nose is actually luminous, as opposed to reflective, so on a darkened night, our Mistle would not be as effective to guide a flying sleigh.”

Greg quickly put his hands over Mistle’s ears and shook his head at Mycroft, with grave and utterly fake disappointment.

      “You’ll hurt his self-esteem.”

      “Lawks!  What a dreadful, unsupportive parent I have become.”

Greg sniggered and gave Mistle a soft boop on his nose for being a very good antler model for Daddy Mycroft.

      “Happens to the best of us.  He followed me into the loo and I told him short little dogs can’t use the big boy toilet.  He was crushed.”

      “Gregory!  I… I may have to phone the child protection services.”

      “I can’t say that may not be for the best.  Poor little bugger gave me the unhappiest set of eyes he could muster and I could scarcely wee from the sorrow he was throwing my way.”

      “A harsh punishment for scarring him so deeply, however, a highly-merited one.”

      “Yes, yes it was.  You done with saving the world?”

      “For the moment.  Unfortunately, it steadfastly refuses to remain saved for any appreciable length of time, so I will be called back into battle at some point, though, likely not today.”

      “Just like a policeman.  That’s why we enjoy, as best as we can, the times the stupid world minds its own business.”

      “Well said.”

      “Speaking of… fancy venturing back outdoors?”

      “I… why?”

      “Well, it’s still snowing and Mistle has been giving those looks where he cuts eyes between what he wants, which is to go play in the snow, and me, so I thought… maybe a walk?”

      “A walk?  That… that is not an impossible idea, I suppose, however, we have neither a collar nor leash to affect the walking.”

Greg grinned and reached down next to him to draw out a leash and collar made from the cut-off top of the puppy’s impromptu sock toy and a long, hand-braided length of twine.

      “See?  One leash and collar.  I don’t think it needs to be terribly strong, since he’s a teensy fellow, but I didn’t want to make anything too heavy for his little self to wear.”

      “Oh… you _have_ been the proverbial busy bee.  Given this particular area is a pleasant one for a stroll, let us test your design.”

Greg whistled a short, jaunty tune, which brought Mistle directly to the tips of Greg’s shoes, to bark and wag his tail in anticipation of whatever fun was to be had when someone was whistling.

      “That’s a good fellow.  Let’s get your reindeer gear off… for now… and see if this will work.”

A quick exchange of antlers for collar followed, which Greg quickly checked would both fit the puppy, wouldn’t stretch enough for him to easily escape and wasn’t too heavy for his neck, and Greg nodded triumphantly at the success of his design.

      “Looks good.”

      “Excellent.  Then I shall get coats for the two of us and… oh, do you believe Mistle will become chilled?  A placid walk is not as metabolically-energizing as a rambunctious romp.”

      “I doubt we’ll be out long enough for that to happen, because this little food machine will want his lunch, but I’ll carry him in my pocket or under my coat if he gets cold or tired.”

      “Very good.  One moment…”

Mycroft found a coat suitable for Greg, as well as gloves and scarf, and donned his own outerwear before trading Greg’s winter protection for Mistle’s makeshift leash.  For his part, Mistle sensed something fantastic was happening and he was thrilled that he was going to be part of it, dancing in place as Greg handed over the leash to get himself dressed for the weather.  Fortunately, Mycroft’s leash hand wasn’t so occupied that it couldn’t be pressed into service with its mate, arranging Greg’s scarf so that it was more effectively placed to ward off the chill.  Something that Mycroft only realized he was doing after he took a moment to check his work and admire a job well done.  Deciding that mention was best not made of the gesture or the clear sense of familiarity behind it, Mycroft cleared his throat in the most self-conscious manner possible and smiled to cover _that_ particular lapse, as well.

Greg, however, thought that, just maybe, part of his thinking about _thinking_ about things could use a little more data.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  I never get it right the first time.  Or second.  Or sixth.  Glad you’re keeping an eye on me.”

Now, of course, Greg had to match his words with an expression that imparted something to his statement besides the basic linguistic context of the words and he hoped and prayed his smile and expression combination didn’t simply make him look gassy.

      “I…”

Mycroft’s mind was rumored to be an actual organic computer sent back from the future and was unlike anything this present world had ever seen.  However, that incomprehensible processor was experiencing a well-recognized blue screen of death as it interpreted Greg’s decidedly non-gassy look.  The Detective Inspector was being… flirtatious?  Was that possible?  Of course, it was _physically_ possible, but… with him?  Surely the man had more enticing prospects!  Though… well, what was to say _he_ could not be enticing with the proper preparation and frame of mind. The fact that it never had happened to date was not necessarily an accurate predictor of the future.  If Gregory was being flirtatious now, however, it implied that enticement had already occurred and could, currently, be an ongoing situation.  Which sounded exactly like some sterile status report of an intelligence operation and that was a dismal black mark against his enticing hypothesis!

Greg took Mycroft’s system shut down as a positive sign and made his own clearing of the throat to serve as the proverbial smack to the computer housing, congratulating himself when his host startled back to a functional state.

      “Ah, do pardon me.  A bit of remembered business that I shall tend to later.”

      “Hate when that happens.  Well, are we ready?  This little rocket is about to pull your arm off.”

Which Mycroft was just noticing as Mistle had begun to tug on his leash, correctly assuming that his dads weren’t standing up and wearing new clothes to sit back down on the sofa.

      “He is certainly anxious for his adventure.”

      “Adventures _are_ grand things, that’s for certain.”

This time, when their eyes locked, neither Greg nor Mycroft had felt very confident as to the reason.  Now, the question was how to _broach_ that reason in such a way that it didn’t all crumble to dust before it had the chance to be more than an electrically-charged locking of the eyes.

      “I agree, Gregory.  Very grand things, indeed.”

Choosing to leave the matter at that, Mycroft grinned and nodded towards the door to take them out into the snow for their walk.  The telegraphed intent set Mistle barking and tugging forward, setting both men laughing as they started walking to obey their princeling’s demands.  Fortunately, between the distraction of Mistle and the gentle quiet of the snow, there would be both time to ignore their thoughts _and_ spend time reflecting on them, a strange combination, but one that would work nicely for them.  Sometimes strange was as good a thing as adventure and, the way it was seeming, they might be in for a bit of both…


	6. Chapter 6

      “You were correct, Gregory.”

Mycroft and Greg gazed fondly at the puppy who was curled on his blanket, so fast asleep that an atomic bomb detonation wouldn’t cause him to stir.

      “He plays hard, he sleeps hard.  Mistle has unlocked the secret to a happy life.”

      “That he has.  And he was a _very_ busy boy on his walk.  It… I admit to being most astonished by the simple zest for life he possesses.  Everything is interesting, everything sparks his curiosity… he has an insatiable zeal to learn and experience and revel in what he finds.”

As Mycroft had discovered quickly on their ‘walk,’ which was more of a glacially-slow saunter while the puppy sniffed, patted, tried to eat and tinkled on every molecule of the area surrounding Mycroft’s home.

      “Everything _is_ new to him and, I suppose, you can react to that with fear, disinterest or excitement.  Our little boy chose well.”

      “Most certainly.  And, how valiantly did he defend us from potential threats.”

      “Made my heart proud.  Those evil shadows, leaves and sweets wrapper had no chance of taking out our throats with Mistle standing guard.”

      “And the sweets wrapper was especially menacing, I must say.  It approached within mere inches of cutting short your life.”

      “I’m not too manly to admit I was terrified.  He’s my little hero.”

Mycroft chuckled at how proudly Greg smiled and had to admit that his pride was equal in size.  He had never noticed before how clever, curious and exuberant was any dog, so he was certain their little bundle was truly an exemplar of the breed.  Whichever breed he might represent.

      “Shall he be a large dog, do you think, Gregory?”

      “Hmmm… I don’t know.  I think they say to look at the paws to get an idea of that and his aren’t particularly enormous.  Not like you see sometimes where the pups are all paws and not much else.  Terrier size, maybe?  I suspect his genetics are a bit of a jumble, so who knows what might sprout as he gets older, though.”

      “He seems, overall, to possess cohesive features, none seem out of proportion to the others, so I suspect he your assessment of a smaller dog is appropriate.  He also… are not dogs supposed to shed rather terribly?  I have seen very little in the way of pet hair on any of the surfaces or our clothing.”

      “I noticed that, too.  I read somewhere, or saw on the telly, that some breeds don’t shed much.  Probably a bit of that in his genetic jumble.”

      “A highly desirable trait, I would say.  Overall, I would award our Mistle a stellar mark for personal qualities.”

      “He is a prize-winner, that’s for certain.  I should think of something special for his lunch to reward him for being a champion.  I think we’re getting a bit short of meat to cook for him, though.”

      “Perhaps the delivery driver for our own repast can be persuaded to add a brief detour to an suitable shop to purchase a quantity of pet food.”

      “Oh, that’s an idea.  Something meaty and yummy.”

      “Then, I shall instruct them to purchase a sack of…”

      “Tin.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Meaty and yummy comes in tins, not sacks.”

      “Tinned food is not good for pets.”

      “Bollocks.”

      “As you have your sources of information, I do, as well, and am most certain the ratio of nutrients to calories is not favorable for tinned food, nor does it provide the dental cleansing that a drier offering contributes.”

      “But… who gets excited over something dry that comes in a sack?”

      “Anyone who purchases biscuits from a bakery.”

      “If you’re eating biscuits as dry as pet food, you need to find another bakery.”

      “Au contraire, certain…”

Mycroft’s mobile ringing cut short the biscuit debate and the look on his face as he listened to the caller made Greg feel very, very sorry for whoever had caused the problem that disrupted the British Government’s holiday.  The snarl when Mycroft spoke a clipped ‘send a car’ had Greg wondering to whom to send flowers for their funeral.

      “How bad is it, Mycroft?”

      “It is Sherlock, so draw your own conclusions.”

      “Fuck me, what’s he done now?”

      “Apparently, he had a second explosives formulation that he had not the chance to test last night.  He made his way to the disused foundry that serves as one of his bolt holes and conducted more of his tests.  The local police have him in custody.”

      “Bloody wonderful.  When he gets something into his head, it takes a lot to dig it completely out.  Leave one bit of root behind and it grows again like a weed.”

      “Further, he is being somewhat bothersome, and your brethren were not inclined to take the helpful suggestion from one of my staff that he simply be driven to 221B and tossed onto the curb.”

      “I’m not surprised.  Coppers working on Christmas aren’t the most tolerant lot, myself included, and I know where that foundry is.  I’ve worked with the top officer at the local station and he is _not_ a fan of government, at all, let alone some government type telling him to release a punk kid who is a verified public menace.  I’ll go with you to help smooth over things since I’ll wager you don’t want an actual government-law enforcement incident on Christmas Day.”

      “It _would_ be somewhat fitting, as Sherlock does enjoy subjecting me to the most trouble and expense as is possible to create, however, my preference would be to avoid that scenario.”

      “Then off we… oh no.”

      “Gregory?”

The look on Greg’s face put Mycroft on alert and the slow cut of Greg’s eyes towards the puppy confirmed that the alert status was justified.

      “Mistle.”

      “Dear heavens.”

      “What are we going to do?”

      “I… we cannot leave him here alone.  He would certainly fear that, again, he had been abandoned.”

      “I’m not going to do that this little baby.  Should we take him with us?”

      “Oh, that might not be a wise idea.  I take it from your assessment that our visit could become a somewhat heated one.”

      “Probably.  No, more like absolutely.”

      “Given that outcome, I would worry we might frighten poor Mistle.”

      “You’re right.  He hasn’t heard me get shouty and… Mycroft, I can’t have him scared of me!”

Nor could Mycroft but, there did exist a possibility for avoiding that fate, loathsome thought it may be.

      “I have an idea.  Not a stellar one, but needs must when the Devil drives.”

Mycroft tapped an icon on his mobile and Greg smirked when Mycroft’s eyes rolled in exasperation when his call was answered.

      “Yes, I am well aware which day of the year is this… No, I have yet to be informed about the landing of space aliens… Be that as it may, I also know your plans for the day were to, and I quote, ‘sit my arse on the sofa with a tub of ice cream and watch the telly all day,’ so I am not entirely concerned I have interrupted anything vital… Good heavens!  That is _certainly_ not ladylike language… In any case, I need you to perform a favor for me… We can negotiate the fee at a later time… No, I will not forget… I shall have a car at your door in ten minutes… That will not be necessary… Yes, you may bring your ice cream.. Goodbye.”

      “Ok, what was that about.”

      “We have a child minder.”

      “Perfect!  Someone we can trust?”

      “Oh yes.  Trust is not an issue of concern, though dear Mistle’s stomach might not appreciate the quantity of ice cream he shall surely be allowed to eat while we are away.”

__________

Greg had seen Anthea many times, always the exemplar of grooming perfection, so her arrival in jeans, an oversized jumper, without any makeup and her hair messily tied back was a Christmas gift he never would have anticipated, even for this singular Christmas day.

      “Oh.  _Oh_ … well, hello, Detective Inspector.  Fancy meeting you here.  Wearing slippers.”

Greg’s little ‘oops’ face made Anthea smile even wider and Mycroft stepped into the space between them to divert any further questions.

      “Spare us your nosiness about Gregory’s footwear and turn, instead, your attention to your duties.”

Anthea smacked her lips slightly at the ‘Gregory’ and decided the Christmas elves had dropped a very nice package right into her lap.

      “Which are?”

Mycroft made a ‘quiet’ gesture and motioned her further into the sitting room to spy the still-sleeping puppy, which made Anthea gasp and make a wavy-hands gesture Mycroft only witnessed when she was especially excited about something, usually something best described as cute.

      “Mistle requires a minder while the Detective Inspector and myself tend to one of Sherlock’s lapses of reason.”

The Christmas elves were feeling very generous this year, apparently, and Anthea was prepared to take full advantage of it.

      “You have a puppy!”

      “I… that is we… Mistle’s history is inconsequential to the matter at hand.  Simply ensure he is tended to while we are out.”

One hand went into Anthea’s handbag, which was not one of the designer models she used for work, and drew out a sealed tub of ice cream and a large spoon.  One adorable puppy, Mr. Holmes’s large, state-of-the-art telly with every channel and feed known to man, fresh pint of ice cream… they could take a bloody holiday in France for all she cared.

      “I am ready and fully capable of doing this.”

      “Excellent.  Shoes, Detective Inspector?”

      “Probably a good idea.  Umm… thanks, Anthea.  We really appreciate the help.”

We.  The Detective Inspector said ‘we.’  Christmas had now displaced Halloween as her favorite holiday.

      “Oh, you’re very welcome.  What’s Christmas about if not to be charitable to those in need.”

Knowing well the smile on Anthea’s face, and how much of an interrogation he would have to endure when she had him in her clutches, Mycroft simply huffed a breath, pointed Anthea to the sofa and Greg to his shoes.  Sherlock’s invoice for this particular debacle was growing by the second.  Perhaps the zoo had a cage empty to hold his brother through New Year’s Day to give him and Gregory some degree of peace.  Even an _inhabited_ cage would do if the poor animal didn’t mind a surly, impulsive toddler sharing its pallet of straw…

__________

Greg’s prediction of shouting proved correct and it was only the combination of that, Mycroft’s glowering and Greg’s pulling their current nemesis to the side for a heart-to-heart about the hazards of roadblocking a man who controlled black ops for most of the free world and a lot else besides, secured Sherlock’s release from custody.

      “You are getting old, Mycroft.  And fat.  It took you fully twenty-three percent longer to free me than your standard average.”

Greg swatted Sherlock’s head and pointed to the car which earned him a scowl, then a slightly quizzical look as Sherlock noticed there was a single car and not Mycroft’s typical dark sedan and whatever police vehicle Greg would normally take when he needed to get somewhere quickly.

      “Stop being an arse, Sherlock.  It’s Christmas Day and you’ve happily put a dent in several people’s celebrations so your skinny self didn’t have to spend the entire thing behind bars.”

      “I would gladly have stayed there if it spared me your pontificating, Lestrade.”

      “See how long you have to wait for me to let you work a case, you miserable Scrooge.”

Mycroft gladly let Greg handle what, he jarringly realized, could be considered their oldest child and reflected on how long both he and the DI had joined forces to keep Sherlock moving forward and away from the demons that had long threatened to drag him under the surface of very dark waters.  He had few true allies in this world and Gregory had been one of the staunchest and most valued.  And, how nice that Sherlock was content to be distracted continuously by Gregory’s chastisement that he left his brother blessedly alone as they left the police station and drove him back to where, hopefully, John had fastened a set of leg irons to the floor to prevent another holiday escape.

      “Alright, you wretched criminal.  Do not do a single thing that’s going to have me or your brother riding to your rescue because I, for one, would actually like to enjoy a Christmas free of tomfoolery and nonsense.”

Sherlock’s rude noise accompanied him out of the sedan and, because he had grabbed the collar of Mycroft’s coat, so did Mycroft if the elder Holmes valued the integrity of his outerwear.  Sherlock’s pointed closing of the door behind them gave Mycroft cause to sigh in preparation for whatever monetary or goods-based demand was about to be laid at his feet.

      “When did you become romantically involved with Lestrade?”

Mycroft actually looked about for the person who had joined them in conversation before he realized Sherlock was actually asking the question of _him_.

      “P… Pardon?”

      “Your disgusting lust for each other has been evident for a nauseating length of time and I want to know when, exactly, you decided to consummate your unholy attraction.”

      “You are… Sherlock, are you insane?”

      “Pfft… you arrive together, with Lestrade wearing clothes that you hoard for the nincompoops foolish enough to agree to meetings in your lifeless home, and I recognize your handiwork in the arranging of his scarf.  When did you become a couple… oh my god, that is cripplingly painful to say aloud.”

      “We… the Detective Inspector and I are _not_ a couple, brother.”

      ‘Your lies make my ears bleed.”

      “Would you care for a tissue?”

      “Your body language in the car was undeniable.  You view him as your romantic partner.”

It was?  Mycroft sent his mental eye through the video files of today and previous meetings with the Detective Inspector and… oh dear.  There was a measurable shift in his posture and demeanor that he could not deny if even he tried.  And he had not noticed a thing!  It was… simply a natural response to Gregory’s presence.  What did it mean?  Or, put more precisely, how should he respond to the rather clear meaning and what steps should he take to affect that response.  One thing, however, was _easily_ addressed…

      “Your inanity and desire to stir trouble, Sherlock, are not appropriate for this festive season.  Go and play with the coal Father Christmas surely left in your stocking, and stay out of trouble for the remainder of the holiday season.”

Sherlock could learn a great deal in the art of ferocity from young Mistle, in Mycroft’s opinion, because his snarl was truly subpar compared to the puppy’s.  However, to be fair, Mistle’s mighty snarls involved, also, a gleam in his eyes, whereas Sherlock’s eyes… held something different.  Something that said his brother had, yet, something else on his mind that demanded attention.

      “What now has your internals in an uproar, brother dear?”

      “You.”

      “Joyful.”

      “Do not…”

      “Yes?”

      “Do not disappoint him.”

Mycroft blinked sharply, completely taken aback by both Sherlock’s words and the forcefulness behind them.  There was no question as to the identity of the ‘him,’ and the cumulative implications of Sherlock’s words were… oddly gladdening.  And, given it was but the two of them here and there might be some movement along the trajectory Sherlock was insinuating, at some point in the future, the Christmas spirit moved Mycroft to speak with some degree of candor.

      “I have no wish to do so.”

      “Your _wishes_ are insufficient.”

      “However, they do speak to my intent.  Further, if you are determined to pursue this… I will do my utmost not to bring about that circumstance, for both Gregory’s and my sake.”

      “Very well.  If you fail, prepare for vengeance.”

Sherlock whirled and stalked towards the familiar door of 221B, leaving Mycroft to steady himself and slot his brother’s observations and words into his rapidly developing portfolio of data for… the Gregory situation.  Sherlock clearly stated ‘lust for each other,’ which was highly informative.  As was the ‘nauseating length of time,’ which implied this was not a recent development on Gregory’s part.  Data, data, data…

Returning to his seat in the car, Mycroft made note of Greg’s ‘well?’ look and opted for something less than a perfectly honest response, given he was still compiling and processing his data streams.  However, an outright lie did not seem… comfortable.

      “He chose to lecture me on the what he perceived as an intentional joint effort on our part to scuttle his nefarious plans.”

      “Ha!  Oh, I can imagine that easily enough.  Poor lamb… having both of us drop on him at once like that probably gave him a bit of a shock.  Usually I’ve exhausted my head shakes and finger wags by the time you arrive, so having us both go at him at once likely had him a touch off-footed.  Merry Christmas to us, I’d say.”

      “I agree.  And, given we are out of the house and have a child minder… might I offer you lunch, Gregory?”

      “I’d love it!  And we can look for a shop so Mistle gets his proper food, too.  Think we should bring something back for your PA?”

      “Given she has surely rummaged through my larder for whatever delicacies she might find, in addition to her premium ice cream, I doubt that is necessary.”

      “However…”

You are a man with an admirable mind, Gregory, that much is certain.

      “ _However_ , some small token would be a strategic offering and, surley, make my working life an easier one for the next few days than if nothing was presented for her troubles.”

      “Then that’ll be our third stop.  Lunch, dog food and PA presents.  A more active Christmas day than I’d anticipated, but I can’t say I mind.”

Greg smiled warmly at Mycroft who snatched the data and shoved it into the appropriate algorithm, unaware that Greg was doing the same, though in a far less mathematical manner.  What had struck Greg most sharply today, besides Sherlock’s bony elbow, was how natural and easy it was working with Mycroft to handle his brother’s nonsense.  Usually it was as he’d described… he mopped up his share of the mess, then Mycroft stepped in to mop up whatever remained.   This… this was different.  And a very good different, at that.  Now, they were set for lunch, a bit of shopping, then home to their furry pup for the rest of Christmas day.  Just like a normal couple. Which they weren’t, of course, but… maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything if he _pretended_ that was the case today, at least, in his own mind.  Just to see how it felt.  Get an idea of the shape of things that could be if… well, if matters took a specific turn.

Which he wasn’t _necessarily_ planning, but it was hard not to notice the change in how Mycroft sat in the car today compared to when they had ridden together in the past.  Or the fond glances he’d received when they were on their walk and playing in the snow.  Maybe it was his imagination, but his DI senses were tingling, too, and those he could usually count on to tell him the true story.  So, lunch, shopping, play with the furry son then… maybe do a little testing of his theory.  If he was wrong, then no harm done.  If he was right… Father Christmas had decided he’d been a very good boy this year, indeed…


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of this Christmas adventure. Thank you all so very much for following along and leaving so many kind words about the story!

Returning home, laden with bags from their Christmas Day spree, Greg started laughing at Mycroft’s irritated huff when Mycroft saw Anthea, feet up on the sofa table with Mistle on her lap, watching telly, a suspiciously-clean empty ice cream pint on the floor and open packet of biscuits in hand, incriminating crumbs on her lap and Mistle’s mouth providing a full picture of how time had been spent while the dads were away.

      “Your sofa manifesto, Mycroft!  Oh the tragedy!”

      “Anthea!  Mistle is not allowed on the furniture.”

Anthea and Mistle languidly, and in unison, turned their heads to favor Mycroft with a ‘who cares?’ gaze.

      “He’s not on the sofa, he’s on my lap.”

      “That codicil has already been confronted and appended to the household contract.”

With another gaze, this one saying ‘we do what we want,’ Anthea set Mistle directly on the sofa next to her and put a biscuit in front of him, which he greedily gobbled.

      “I go big or I go home.”

      “Then do not let us detain you, Madam Rebel.”

Greg knew he could try for a hundred years and not come close to Anthea’s effortless aplomb and nonchalance as she gave Mycroft a flick of her wrist, then picked up Mistle for a session of conspiratorial whispering before setting him on the floor with another biscuit, toed on her shoes and retrieved her spoon from the ice cream container.  Which stayed on the floor.

      “I smell curry.  Want to explain that, when you two were supposed to be bailing Sherlock’s ridiculous self from jail?”

      “Ummm… we stopped for lunch, Mycroft and me, and thought you might want a little something, too.  If not for now, but for later.”

Greg held up the sack of food like a tribute to the goddess who was certainly not looking upon him with great favor.  For her part, Anthea positively adored that her casual self witnessing their cozy domesticity was making Greg nervous and she happily anticipated leveraging that for a very long time to come.

      “I see.  Is it my favorite?”

      “I… yeah, actually.  Mycroft knew what to order.”

      “Then I accept.  The baby has been fed and left you a pressie outside, so Merry Christmas from both of us.”

Mycroft snorted and waved off his PA’s words with a highly-practiced gesture.

      “Your diligence is noted.”

      “It had best be, Mr. Holmes, or you can lose my mobile number when you need a day to yourselves without the baby again.  Now, do I see bag of dog food peeking out right there?”

      “That you do.”

      “It is high-quality?  Did you read the ingredients?  If the first ones are crap grains or soy or anything like that, it won’t go well for you.”

      “The first ingredients are nutritious foodstuffs to help young puppies grow.  Does that satisfy your standards?”

      “No tins, correct?”

      “No tins. Much to Gregory’s frustration.”

Anthea fixed Greg with a steely glare and wagged her finger at him.

      “No tins.”

      “Tinned food is fine!  I looked at what’s in it and it was good stuff!  Well, not all the brands were like that, but some were and… why can’t he have some nice meat and veg and gravy?  What’s wrong with that?  I’d eat it!”

Anthea looked down at Greg’s midsection, then back up at him, shaking her head slowly and with a thick layer of meaning.

      “We’ll discuss it while you walk me to the car and carry my food.”

Before Greg could answer, Anthea looped her arm in his and began dragging him towards the door, something that impressed Greg mightily since he wasn’t a light man and she dragged him much as if she dragging a doll.

      “We didn’t get any tins, I promise!  Besides, you fed him ice cream and biscuits!”

      “Christmas calories are fake news.  Now… have you properly moved in or are you just spending the holiday with him?”

      “Wh…what?”

      “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled, you don’t know who thrilled I am, that you two finally stopped hiding behind the hedges and decided that your ridiculous pining-from-afar wasn’t getting you anywhere, but I have to work with that man and if his life is seeing significant changes, then I need to know what they are and on what schedule can I expect more.  He’s stupidly-difficult to manage as it is, and I really don’t need you, Mr. Tin, making my life harder with your ‘wh…what ‘ nonsense.”

Greg wondered if he’d slipped on patch of ice, knocked his head and was now having a curry-scented hallucination where Mycroft’s PA thought they were a couple and… the hallucination seemed to believe that they’d noticed a pining from afar.  From both of them.  If anyone would actually know about the status of Mycroft’s pining, or lack thereof, it _would_ be hallucination Anthea.  She probably knew what color underpants he wore every day, so she’d surely notice if pining had manifested at any particular point in time.  And, the way she made it sound… it manifested a lot…

      “It’s not nonsense!  We found Mistle last night and Mycroft had no clue about what to do with a puppy.  I said I’d stay a bit and make certain Mistle was taken care of.”

      “Uh huh… do you actually expect me to believe that.”

      “It’s the truth!”

      “You’re sad.  Pathetic and sad.  But, so is he, so I suppose it stands to reason.  Know this, though… if you hurt him, I’ll hurt you.  In every way possible.  And I can imagine more possibilities than that thick, lying skull of yours can even begin to conceive.”

Anthea snatched her food, gave Greg a punch on the arm to drive home her point, then patted the punch site and smiled to cement the _new_ point that she could be an ally here or his mortal enemy and choice was squarely on his shoulders.  Then it was a quick hop into the waiting car and the order for the driver to take her home, with a quick stop at whatever might be open to buy a bottle of champagne.  If anything required celebrating it was her celibate hermit of a boss finally landing the man of his many daydreams.  And they already had a baby!  The cutest, smartest baby in the world, too.  Well, Auntie Anthea would make certain that precious bundle had all the toys, sweaters, holiday outfits and treats it wanted.  Fuddy-duddy dads weren’t going to stand in her way, either.  Oh, and the after-holiday sales that were about to begin… some Christmases were better than others and this one was already sitting at the top of the list…

__________

Choosing not to share the transcript of his conversation with Anthea, Greg, instead, tended to Mistle’s little gift while Mycroft poured them something soothing, and joined him on the sofa when he’d fully divested himself of outerwear and donned his now traditional slippers.

      “In some ways, Mycroft, this is about the Christmas I would have predicted.  Sherlock off his nut, something spicy and not cooked by me to eat and, now, a healthy measure of quality alcohol.  But, of course, I didn’t predict _this_ little angel… look at him, he’s so cute!”

And elated that his dads were home and talking to him and applying lots of pets and pats, even if he wasn’t on the sofa as he’d been with his new human who he liked very much and hoped would come back soon to provide ice cream and hugs.

      “That he is.  And had his conduct been anything less than exemplary, Anthea would not have hesitated to let us know.”

      “So… the baby is far better behaved that his much-older brother.  Sherlock is going to hate that.”

      “He will likely launch a campaign to indoctrinate young Mistle in his maniacal ways and it shall take nothing short of continued vigilance to ward off Sherlock’s corruptive influence.”

As both men took a moment to give Mistle all the scratches and pets he deserved, that moment also allowed two other things to happen.  First, to realize that they’d been speaking quite distinctly, and frequently, in terms that contrasted sharply with tomorrow’s planned phone call to a shelter and, second, to touch fingers without having to apologize, explain or worry about any particular signals being sent.

Though, the fact that more finger and hand touching was occurring than was precisely _necessary_ for petting the dog was not lost on either of them.

      “Do you think he’s hungry?”

      “Given Anthea seems to have allowed him to feast on any manner of decadence, I would wager not, however, young Mistle _has_ proven his appetite is a hearty one.  And, I feel some actual food in his stomach would be a benefit given quantity of ice cream and biscuits is currently contains.”

      “Yeah, me, too.  And we’ll get to see if he approves of what we bought.”

Which was the product of very serious study, discussion, debate, internet research and seeking the opinion of other shoppers who were out for last-minute or emergency goods.

      “Very true.  If this is not to his taste, then, at least, we know a shop open where others may be had that might better suit him.”

Again, none of that sounded to either of their ears like the puppy at their feet was transitioning to another home at any time in the future.  But… that conversation could be had at another time.  Right now, there was a maybe-hungry puppy to feed, then let out into the snow to play… there was Scotch to drink, old Christmas films to watch, reading to be done if none of the old Christmas films hit the right notes for the day and… whatever else might come their way. 

Of course, whatever else might come their way did depend, to some extent, on what they might be thinking, wanting and contemplating… and brave enough to move forward from the contemplative stage to something acted upon.  Which might not happen!  No rules at Christmas, none at all… luckily, Mycroft’s Scotch reserves were not near to being depleted because nothing helped with thinking like a well-relaxed brain…

__________

      “If we could but bottle Mistle’s energy, there would be no need for any form of fossil-fuel use in any country in the world.”

The puppy had adored his new food, eaten a full bowl, then promptly decided to nap, which allowed his dads to relax for a few hours and simply enjoy each other’s company and the soothing sights, sounds and pleasantries of the day.  Of course, when Mistle woke, the tone changed rapidly and, now, the puppy was working off his food and treats in the new layer of snow that had fallen, as still was falling, urged on by many throwings of the balled sock that he fought ferociously before returning for another throw out into snow.

      “I could use my share, that’s for certain.  Some days it seems that the only way I keep going is by completely transfusing my blood with coffee.”

      “A feeling I know well, though my vessels are more accommodating to a bracing blend of tea.”

      “That works, too.  Technically I have tomorrow off, but I’m high up on the call-in list, so there’s a chance I’m dragging in at some point and a LOT of coffee is going to be needed for that.”

      “Oh…”

Greg studied Mycroft’s rather surprised face and wondered if now was the moment to address one of the sensitive items on his list of discussion topics.

      “What about you?  Are you back at the coal face tomorrow?”

      “I… I had intended to be…”

      “Rethinking?”

Oh yes, the look on Mycroft’s face told Greg a lot and part of that ‘lot’ was that they were thinking very much along the same lines.

      “I… perhaps.”

      “We’re not calling a shelter tomorrow, are we.”

Mycroft sighed loudly and reached down to lift up Mistle, who had returned his ball and was anxiously awaiting another throw.

      “The thought of that… of handing this dear puppy over to hands who would, I have no doubt, treat him kindly, but not…”

      “Love him.”

Mycroft nuzzled the puppy and smiled gently as he received a wealth of kisses from the object of his affection.

      “Well said.  I thought it would be an easy thing, to turn him over to a shelter, but… I cannot deny that a bond has formed, and it is one I cannot imagine breaking.”

      “Are you… feeling more confident about managing a little one like this?”

      “Some.  I have made careful note of all that has been done and none of it is beyond my capabilities.  However, had he arrived, alone, without your patient and loving attention, my confidence would be markedly lower, and I would certainly feel another home was a more charitable option.  Unless… are you certain you are not able to welcome Mistle into _your_ home?”

      “Not unless I find a different flat and that’s not an easy thing in this city.  But, I’d do it.  If this little Christmas miracle needed a permanent home, I’d start the search first thing tomorrow.  However… I think a permanent home for him has already been found.”

Greg scratched Mistle’s head and laughed as his fingers became recipients of their own kisses that the puppy was gleefully bestowing.

      “I believe you are correct.  Though… oh dear, there is still so much to consider.  I am often away from extended periods, have dreadfully long days...”

      “All problems have solutions, Mycroft.  Let’s just enjoy the good news for awhile and worry about the details later.”

Something that had Mistle’s agreement as he barked happily and gained a firm hug from his dark-haired daddy as a reward, before he was set down to chase another thrown ball.

      “An excellent suggestion.  For now… look at him, Gregory.  So much happiness in such a little puppy.”

      “Refills your own stock of hope and goodwill, doesn’t it?  All the shit we slog through, day in and day out… seeing that pure happiness and joy actually exist… you want to protect it with everything in you.  Gives that polish to your sense of purpose that loses its luster now and again.”

      “Truly, you are correct.  Oh no… Gregory, what has he found?”

      “Looks like… uh oh.  Frozen piece of poop I missed.  Hold on, I’ll get it.”

Something for which Mycroft was exceedingly thankful.  Wrestling frozen feces from a puppy was a bit beyond his current comfort level, but that was very much where Gregory’s skills came in handy.  Though… those skills were soon to vanish like smoke in the wind, as would the man himself.  And… that was a thought as difficult to process as the loss of young Mistle.  For all the lustful thoughts he had entertained about the Detective Inspector, the reality of the man’s companionship was so much more compelling.

And he did not want to let it go…

__________

One cold, exhausted puppy was given a warm bath, a fluffy-towel drying and a small morel of cheese as reward for being an exceptional fetcher, then promptly fell asleep to recharge his batteries for another bout of playing later in the day.  Which was now entering evening and reminding the doggy dads that lunch was sufficiently far in the past that turning attention towards either dinner or a pre-dinner nosh was not unwise.

      “Take-away, Mycroft?”

      “Hmmm… have we nothing to prepare ourselves?”

      “Your refrigerator is a touch like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard at the moment.  Though… you’ve got eggs.  I can do omelets.  There’s some onions and tomatoes and peppers lying about, too, and cheese.  With some bread, that’s not the worst dinner in the world.  If you’ve got beans, that would make it especially brilliant and certainly do a nice job of filling a hungry stomach.”

      “I am afraid I cannot offer that particular delicacy, however…”

Mycroft made a ‘one moment’ gesture and did a quick rummage through his cupboards to, finally, draw out an item that he held up in victory, gaining Greg’s enthusiastic applause.

      “Pasta!  And that’s the good stuff, too.  Much better than what I keep on hand for a quick meal.”

      “In truth, I prefer fresh pasta, however, I do recognize that occasions arise where basic staples of sustenance can save one from perishing from hunger.  Shall we save the eggs for breakfast and test our creativity with this for dinner?”

      “I am one-hundred percent behind that idea.  Ready to take kitchen inventory, Mr. Holmes?”

      “That I am.  Ready to be struck by inspiration, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Even if it hurts.”

      “Then let us get started.”

It was incredibly silly for two adult men to be giddy over making the world’s simplest Christmas dinner, however, giddy they were and, in a trice they had all the kitchen cupboards open, as well as the refrigerator door, to embark on the Great Pasta Adventure.  And, if this just gave them more time together to… think… wasn’t that a handy little side-benefit to savor…

__________

With the full creative power of two middle-aged minds put to the task, the dinner conundrum was very successfully conquered, and it was with full and content stomachs that the two began to clear away the dishes and start the washing up.  It was only then that the newly-adopted Mistle made his sleepy way into the kitchen, haven woken and wondered (a) where were his dads and (b) why did he smell food when there wasn’t even a crumb of food in _his_ mouth.

      “There’s our little boy!  Looking like he’s ready to fall back to sleep.  Did you get lonely, Mistle?  We’re sorry about that.”

Greg quickly dried his hands, then picked up the puppy who whimpered pitifully as if to give Greg exactly the answer that would most tug at his heartstrings.

      “I would say dear Mistle was most aggrieved that he was not part of whatever activity it was that had us engaged.”

      “He likes to be in the thick of it, that’s for certain.  You’re got a partner, now, for whenever you’ve got work to do.  He’ll be right there growling at all the bastards trying to cause mischief and bark at the pesky pieces of paper that are making his dad frown.”

      “Never have I been so thoroughly supported in my efforts.”

      “We’ll need to get him a little bed to put in that study of yours, so he can keep an eye on things.”

      “A kingly one he shall have…”

Mycroft’s storehouse of courage for personal matters was not nearly as filled to overflowing as it was for matters of work, however, he also knew that there existed in this world true tragedies that arose when one simply did not capitalize upon an opportunity.  Gregory had specifically said “we’ll” and how many such signs could he ignore before there were no more to be found?

      “… and I have no doubt _we_ shall choose the perfect one.”

Letting his eyes punctuate his inflection, Mycroft held Greg’s gaze until he felt a familiar slow tingle move through his body from their eyes doing more than simple gazing.  The next thing he felt was Greg’s fingers moving to lightly caress his cheek before leaning in to press a soft, warm kiss on Mycroft’s lips.

      “Tell me if I read things wrong, Mycroft.”

Greg’s answer was Mycroft giving his own kiss, this one longer and with a tentative bit of passion that encouraged Greg to take it higher at his own pace, which Greg didn’t pause a moment in doing, with his hand reaching to wrap around Mycroft’s waist and draw them closer together to deepen the kiss, one that only broke when Greg realized he might be squishing the dog in the space between them.

      “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.  The first time I saw you, Mycroft, I thought that you were the most handsome, elegant man I’d ever laid eyes on.  And the more I learned… the more I wanted to take you in my arms and show you just how amazing I thought you were.”

Mycroft gulped slightly at Greg’s words, but only because he had always hoped to hear something along those lines from the man holding him like a precious gift and never, ever, believed it would ever occur.

      “I have felt the same way, Gregory.  I desperately wanted to bring you closer to me, for you were, from the onset, a man who beguiled me as no other.”

      “Looks like we both got what we wanted, then.  Are you… are you alright with continuing along this particular road to see where hit leads?”

      “I am, as they say, more than alright with that notion...”

Should he up the proverbial ante?  Dash it all, it was Christmas!  If there was a time for ante-upping, this certainly was it.

      “… of course, I would know if you are currently referring to the road to the future or… a more proximal road?”

      “I have no idea what that means.”

Nor, as he replayed in his mind his attempt at seduction, did Mycroft.

      “I… I simply hoped to indicate a more immediate willingness to… that is to say… given we have set our feet upon a path of some degree of physicality…”

Greg’s face screwed up into a perfect mask of confusion until the less analytical part of his brain , the part that remembered a youth positively brimming with failed innuendo, hints and attempts to pull at his local, leapt into the fray to prevent what it would have forever claimed as his most catastrophic failure in long history of romantic catastrophes.

      “How about I call your _more immediate willingness_ and raise with a question about whether you’ve got a big comfortable bed upstairs.”

Gregory had gleaned his meaning!  And responded with card-playing vernacular!  They were so very perfectly matched…

      “My bed is most large and comfortable, as a matter of fact.  It shall easily host two adult male bodies, no matter the degree of… acrobatics… in which they might choose to engage.”

Realizing that a man his age and level of physical condition would likely require transport to hospital if he attempted anything remotely acrobatic, Mycroft quietly cleared his throat, then began sniggering when Greg’s eyes lit up and he started his own, knowing, laughter.

      “You mean like when you bend over to put on your shoes and are proud of yourself since you didn’t grunt like your dad?”

Laughing harder, Mycroft married his genuinely-content mirth with another kiss on Greg’s lips, then one on Mistle’s head, because daddy-laughter merited highly-spirited barking and kisses galore.  The growing and rather odd, yet warm, feeling of family that infused Mycroft’s body and mind had him wanting this night never to end and that this little bubble of joy would follow him through the remainder of his days.  But, there would be other nights.  A rather enlivening number of them, in point of fact and many bubbles of joy yet to be discovered…

      “You read my mind, Detective Inspector..”

      “I’m riding a carb high from all that pasta.  How does this sound?  A bit more family time, with some telly and a final trip outside for this little boy, then we see if your bold claims about that bed are true.”

      “A stellar plan.  Though… will Mistle be upset to find himself alone?”

      “Before we actually go to sleep, I’ll carry him upstairs and he can have a space on the floor on my side of the bed, so I’ll hear if he needs to go outside again.”

If there was a cozier domestic arrangement in existence, Mycroft was certain he had never heard tell of it.  And it was something he craved, more deeply than he’d ever craved anything in his personal life.  In truth, he avoided coveting _anything_ of a personal nature, given the demands of his work, but… this would be the exception.  And he could find nothing in him that regretted it.

      “Your talent for strategy, Gregory… it is truly inspiring.”

      “Coming from the master, that is high praise indeed.  See the furry son sorted with water and treats, then a bit of sofa time?”

Mistle certainly thought that a fine idea and he began wriggling to be set down to await his promised treats and the start of the next portion of his day.

      “Excellent.  I feel our evening is now set upon the proper course of its journey.”

      “I think you’re right.  Can’t fault it, at all, as the ending for… our first Christmas together.”

Mycroft fell into the emotion shining in Greg’s eyes and this kiss was one that sent the warmth of their feelings flowing through every conceivable part of them and stirred certain regions that were very anxious for the latter part of the evening’s revelry.  However, those regions could wait their turn.  Tonight was about them.  The _whole_ of them and what they hoped to share and build.  Which certainly involved regions, but a great deal more besides…

__________

Being woken by a shout hadn’t happened to Greg in a very long time, but if he remembered correctly, he reacted to that occasion in much the same way, by leaping, naked, out of bed to try and subdue whatever threat had infiltrated his... _soon_ -to-be-his-if-his-guess-was-right… bedroom.

      “Sherlock!”

      “You are nude!  And here! With… Fatcroft!”

Who was also nude and out of bed, with a firearm in his hand that he’d removed from the nightstand.  Not that it was necessary, given Mistle had Sherlock cornered on the side chair he’d jumped on to avoid what he thought was a rat racing towards him at top speed.  With Mistle barking wildly, leaping and snapping to try and protect his dads from this attacker, Sherlock would have far preferred the rat.

      “I am blinded by the fat and flaccid nudity!”

      “What… Sherlock, why on Earth are you here?”

      “Being mauled!”

      “Mistle has yet to maul you, though, I make no guarantees about Gregory’s future actions.”

      “I refuse to be manhandled by someone whose penis has assaulted my eyes on Boxing Day!”

      “My dear… shall we begin our morning?”

Greg smirked and nodded sagely.  He had hoped for a repeat of last night’s torrid lovemaking, but there was always tonight.  Or this afternoon.  Or anytime, actually, when Mistle was napping.

      “I don’t think we have a lot of choice.  Which son do you want to handle?”

      “If I allow you the easier one, will that earn me a cup of tea?”

      “Absolutely.”

Greg strode forward, threw Sherlock over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, then turned back towards Mycroft, actually taking care not to smack Sherlock’s head against the wall or chair.

      “Don’t forget a little bag when you take Mistle outside and if he’s this excited, he may spend some time tinkling in a hundred or so places before anything else happens.  Don’t forget to wear a scarf, either.  It’s chilly outside.”

Watching the still-naked Greg port the loudly complaining Sherlock out of the bedroom, Mycroft decided that he would broach the subject of cohabitation sooner than later.  The agony his brother would suffer would be crippling!  And the ecstasy he would experience would be… life-altering.

      “Well, Mistle, you an exceedingly good boy being our guard dog.  Showed that pesky Sherlock who was… oh no.  No no no no no… no squatting in the bedroom!”

Grabbing the dog, Mycroft raced out of the bedroom, also nude, to save his rugs a fate they certainly did not deserve.  However, in full honesty, if anything was a more fitting start to his and Gregory’s first official day as a couple, he could not imagine it.  And, he was entirely certain, this would not be anywhere near the most chaotic morning they would share together through the years.  Not that he would have it any other way…


End file.
